


all i wanna do (is fall in deep)

by hellstrider



Series: Into You [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Subspace, Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Dom/sub, Fighting, Gentle Sex, In which Geralt is still a Witcher and Jaskier is basically Ariana Grande, Into You Verse, M/M, Siren!Jaskier, Witcher!Geralt, reupload
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:49:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22822063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellstrider/pseuds/hellstrider
Summary: the first time it happens, it's entirely byaccident.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Into You [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1596667
Comments: 13
Kudos: 642





	all i wanna do (is fall in deep)

The first time it happens, it’s entirely by _accident._

And this is how it _starts;_

It starts when they _finally_ let Geralt out of the hospital after a _week,_

And by the third day, he’s well aware he’s become a full-blown _menace,_

But everything _reeks_ of fucking _hospital_ and _bleach_ and _sick,_ and it sets his goddamn teeth on edge,

And he’s well on his way to healing by the _third day,_ due to the lovely sorcery and mutagens that make him _what he is,_

But the doctors and the specialists insist on keeping him, and Jaskier sides with them, because _of course he does,_ and by the fifth day, Geralt can’t even take comfort in the Siren’s scent, anymore, because now _Jaskier_ smells like _hospital_ and _sick_ and _bleach_ , too,

Which is _so much worse_ , is doing something to make the Witcher’s instinct go _haywire,_

And it’d been _five fucking months_ of not having the Siren nearby before this,

Which was, of course, his _own damned fault,_

And it had taken having his throat nearly ripped out for Geralt to see how foolish he’d been,

Had taken the looming threat of death to show him what his heart came alive for,

And he’s a fucking _menace_ by the third day,

So by the _seventh_ day,

He’s so tightly wound he thinks a goddamn gust of too-strong wind might just make him _fucking snap._

And maybe it’s not a _good idea,_

Going back to Jaskier’s place so _soon,_

_But,_

They’ve been in the fucking hospital for _seven days_ and everything reeks of sick and bleach, and before that it’d been _five fucking months_ since Geralt had the Siren near, and every time Jaskier even _speaks_ , something hot and _needy_ curls up tight in his gut, and Jaskier smells like _hospital_ and sick and _static_ , and it’s doing something _stupid_ to the Witcher’s instinct,

_So,_

They end up in the car Yennefer’s sent for them after wading through a mess of reporters and photogs, because the _entire world_ had figured out that _Jaskier Pankratz_ was in the _SICU_ with his wayward Witcher when some nurse had leaked a picture of them, a picture of Jaskier gently brushing a lock of Geralt’s hair back as Geralt gazed up at him like he’d hung the damn _moon,_

So that ends up all over the goddamn place, splashed over tabloids, and the only reason Geralt knows that is because Yennefer keeps sending Jaskier articles, keeps sending him tweets, and eventually Geralt steals the Siren’s phone and sits on it,

(Because Geralt _still remembers_ the tabloids after he’d _stupidly_ left Jaskier five months ago, all splashed with rumors of his ‘ _exploits_ ’ with Yen, all _false;_ he still remembers Jaskier’s drunken tirade of heartbroken tweets, every single one of which he’d read about two or three times and then promptly gotten drunk, himself,)

And maybe it’s a _bad idea,_

But maybe that’s the _only fucking way_ they’ll ever figure their _shit_ out in the end,

Is through a strategically maneuvered series of bad ideas,

Bad ideas that all coalesce _into –_

“ _Fuck_ , Geralt, _just –“_

“I’ve _got you_ , sweet thing,”

“Then _get on with it_ ,”

And Geralt’s _barely_ got two slick fingers working Jaskier open,

But Jaskier’s all saltwater, all _sweat,_ all _need_ , and he reeks like the damn hospital, because they didn’t even – they didn’t even stop to fucking _shower_ , and, see,

This is how it _starts,_

As soon as they’re in Jaskier’s flat –

No.

_Wait,_

Okay, _so,_

Really,

It _starts_ in the _hospital,_

When Geralt crowds Jaskier against the fucking glass wall _just_ inside the double doors of the main entrance; his ears are ringing with the fucking click of cameras and chatter of the reporters and the ravenous crowd that’s gathered to catch a glimpse of the Siren and his wayward Witcher,

And the full force of Jaskier’s PR team is buzzing around them like vultures, all chattering amongst themselves, all snapping orders and waving back hospital staff,

But Jaskier slides his hands up over Geralt’s chest like they’re the _only two people_ standing in the entirely _open,_

Well-lit,

_All-glass,_

Front foyer of the _goddamn hospital,_

And,

_Look,_

Geralt _hates_ this shit,

Hates the fucking _photogs_ and the tabloids and _the fucking_ – the goddamn _fanatics_ , most of all, who _all_ want a piece of the Siren he’s got crowded against the window, just a little left of center fucking stage,

But _look,_

He’s already fucked this up enough,

And at the end of it all?

When Geralt was bleeding out over a shattered vase of white roses going red,

When Jaskier’s voice poured out from a shitty little radio sat on a table covered in fucking doilies,

All Geralt had wanted to do was _feel_ it,

Was to feel the way it _moved_ him,

And Siren’s song doesn’t affect Witchers,

But even if it _could,_

Geralt knows it _wouldn’t,_

Because in that moment,

As he bled out over white roses going red,

He’d realized that there wasn’t _anything_ in the world he wanted more than _this,_

And he’d do anything to keep it _anyway,_

So,

Geralt _hates this shit_ ,

But he crowds Jaskier against the window and the Siren slides his hands up over his chest, long since healed over,

And he can’t leave _any fucking room_ for _doubt,_

Because these past seven days, he’s _smelled_ it on Jaskier,

Bitter as lemon rinds,

And they’re just a little left of _center fucking stage_ when Geralt noses against Jaskier’s cheek, a silent question, and the Siren huffs a quiet, “ _drama queen_ ,” before sealing their mouths together, and the cameras are going _insane_ , absolutely insane,

But all Geralt can see when they break apart is the way Jaskier’s blue eyes have gone a little _dewy_ , a little _hazy_ , as they scrape over the Witcher’s face,

So that’s where it _really_ starts,

Because the _entire ride back_ to Jaskier’s flat in Chelsea, Jaskier is planted right in Geralt’s fucking lap, hands up under Geralt’s shirt, fingertips and tongue tracing the new scars lacing his ribs, his chest, his _throat,_

And maybe it’s a _bad idea,_

Because they’re suddenly _arguing_ as Geralt shoves through the front door of Jaskier’s flat, _arguing_ , even as Jaskier’s stood on Geralt’s steel-toed boots as the Siren tugs at his jacket, even as Geralt pulls Jaskier’s belt free _, and,_

“You deserve _better,”_

“Is that just an _excuse_ , Geralt?”

“An excuse for _what?”_

“To keep me right where you want me,” Jaskier pants quietly against Geralt’s lips, and his sky-blue eyes are a little _too bright_ as Geralt tries to swallow against a heart-packed throat; “without having to love me,”

Which, _really,_

“That’s the _stupidest_ thing you’ve _ever_ said to me, Jaskier,”

“I _hate you_ , you know that?”

“No, you don’t,”

 _“Yes,_ I do,”

_And,_

Maybe this is the _only way_ they’ll _work this out,_

Is by carving through all the bad ideas _first,_

So they can reach –

“ _Oh,_ Geralt, _fuck,_ baby, I feel you in my _throat_ , oh, _God_ –“ and,

“Even _I_ can smell the fucking hospital on you, baby, can only imagine what _you_ smell on me, know you want to _fix that_ , don’t you?” and,

“Don’t you _dare_ hold back, Witcher _, don’t –“_

_But,_

He doesn’t think he possesses the ability to _control_ himself like that, right now,

Because the _grating_ , aching _moan_ Jaskier lets out when Geralt pushes his thighs back and plunges in as deep as he can is like sheer _ecstasy_ down his spine, the kind of thing that makes Geralt’s eyes burn and his bones turn to _steel_ , and while the Siren’s song doesn’t _affect him_ ,

Geralt can still _feel_ it,

And it’s enough to be a _dying wish_ , to feel the way Jaskier’s voice _rips_ through him,

The sort of thing that has Geralt’s gut clenching, has his skin pebbling with gooseflesh from throat to cock, the kind of thing that makes him want to _bite down_ , so,

He noses over Jaskier’s throat, sinks his teeth into soft, porcelain flesh as he starts to fuck Jaskier into the sheets, the sheets that _reek_ of him, even as the Siren smells like _hospital,_ like sterile _static,_

But he intends to _fix that,_

Intends to remedy the fact that the sheets don’t smell _at all_ of him anymore,

Remedy the fact that Geralt went and deprived them both of _this_ ,

For _five goddamn months,_

So there's _no way_ any of this could be a _bad idea,_

Because after _five fucking months,_

Here they are,

Here _he_ is,

 _Right_ where he should've _stayed,_

And _Geralt thinks_ – thinks he _owes_ the damn vampire that bit through his throat his _life,_

Because Geralt hadn’t known how close he’d been to the edge of being a dead thing walking himself,

Until he was bleeding out over a shattered vase of white roses, turning the ivory petals _red,_

Until he was thumbing over Jaskier’s name on the cracked screen of his phone,

Until he’d heard the salvation that was the stiff, apprehensive, ‘ _Geralt’_ , that Jaskier had greeted him with at _four in the goddamn morning,_

And his too-slow heart,

The one that was beating itself _dry_ with each heaving pump,

Had _tripped over itself_ with Jaskier’s tight, tense, ‘ _Geralt,_ ’ and,

He hadn’t _felt_ Jaskier’s voice, then,

But, _Gods,_

Jaskier lets out an _obscene_ whimper as he tangles their fingers together a tad desperately, as he _squirms_ beneath Geralt, hips cresting up, almost as if _he can’t_ – can’t get _close enough_ , even as Geralt bows over him, _cages him in,_ and,

“Geralt, _please,”_

And it’s – _Gods_ , it’s -

“Your _voice_ ,” Geralt breathes as Jaskier pants and _whines_ against his cheek, “ _Jaskier,”_ and,

The Siren lets out an _agonized_ kind of keen, one that has Geralt’s nose furling, one that has his cock throbbing where it’s buried _so_ deep in the tight, _wet_ heat of him, and Jaskier digs his heels into Geralt’s ass, thighs gripping his hips until they _tremble_ with the effort,

_And,_

“Geralt, _Geralt –_ please, darling, _touch me,_ I –“

_But,_

“Not yet,” Geralt burrs as he noses over Jaskier’s throat, _thick_ with the scent of the clean sweat that’s starting to push the stench of _hospital_ out of Jaskier’s skin, and it’s enough to make him have to go _still,_ just,

So he doesn’t finish _too soon_ ,

So this doesn’t end _too fast,_

And Jaskier makes a _gut-punched_ kind of sound when Geralt’s hips stop moving,

When he goes still, _all_ to breathe in the musky scent of fresh, clean sweat, sweat _he’s_ worked out of Jaskier, all while his cock is buried warm and hard between the Siren’s thighs, kept _so_ well in the _tight_ clutch of his body,

And Geralt splays a hand over one slender hip as he sinks down into a sheer sensation of _paradise,_ as he tips back to meet those sky-blue eyes, and Jaskier bites his bottom lip, worries it between his teeth until Geralt’s coaxing it free with a thumb,

Until Geralt’s licking over it, soothing the redness with a tongue starved for the way Jaskier _whines_ when Geralt catches his hand as it sneaks down between them, gentles it away from his cock, and the way Jaskier _whines_ leaves a taste like honey at the back of Geralt’s throat,

As the Siren’s hips strain _so_ fucking fine in the cage of Geralt’s brutal palms,

As his thighs grip Geralt’s waist so hard they _shake,_

And the Siren smells like musk and cedar, like smoke and rose,

Like _saltwater_ and the opaline pre that _bleeds_ from the pink head of his cock,

And all Geralt’s been _smelling_ for the past seven days has been the fucking _hospital_ , and before that it was motel room after motel room, was strange bed after strange bed, was _gasoline_ and steel, blood and _bile,_

Was road and _ruin,_

So to _sink_ into the soft atmosphere of Jaskier’s voice,

His body,

His _scent –_

It’s beyond _any_ blessing any benevolent God could bestow on _one wayward Witcher,_

And Geralt slides an arm under the dip of Jaskier’s spine as he drags his teeth over the side of his throat, as he coaxes purple from ivory, as he gets drunk on the scent of Jaskier’s skin, a thing he’s been starving for, a thing he’s been _deprived_ of,

And it’s his _own damn fault,_

Because; “you deserve better,” Geralt murmurs, but, “it’s no excuse. Because _here I am,_ loving you anyway, like the selfish bastard I am,” but,

There's no way this could _ever_ be a _bad idea,_ even if he doesn't _deserve it,_ because _everything_ Jaskier touches turns to _gold,_ and that includes the ashen remains of his _too-slow heart,_

_And,_

Jaskier breathes hard and _quick_ , right against the new scars on Geralt’s throat, and he curls as close to the Witcher as he can, curls close with a sweet whine that thrums through him until Geralt’s gathering him up against the barrel of his chest, where his too-slow heart feels _properly_ alive for the first time in _five months_ ,

Where it beats to the cadence of the way Jaskier breathes, “Geralt, _please,”_ and,

He never could say _no_ , not to Jaskier,

So Geralt rolls his hips, catches the rugged, _whining_ sigh of _relief_ Jaskier lets out against his tongue,

And,

_Don’t you dare hold back, Witcher,_

But he doesn’t think he has the self-control that would take, at the current moment,

As Jaskier’s scent _surrounds_ him,

As the Siren’s voice crashes _through_ him, the moon commanding the tide of his soul, and,

Geralt could _live_ like this, he thinks, as he shoves Jaskier’s thighs back,

As he starts to fuck into him the way he knows will _bruise,_

The way he’s only _ever_ fucked Jaskier a handful of times before,

Notably whenever he came back from a hunt that went sour,

And he could _live here,_

 _Right_ here,

Buried between Jaskier’s thighs,

The thighs that cling to his waist so hard they _quiver,_

And a new kind of beast grips Geralt now,

As he fucks Jaskier in the way that will _bruise_ ,

And Jaskier’s cock is _weeping_ pre over his belly, the scent of it enough to make Geralt’s mouth water, and Jaskier’s blue eyes are _glassy_ as he slides his arms around Geralt’s neck, as he ghosts his sweat-sticky lips over the Witcher’s until Geralt’s kissing him so slow and so _deep_ it has his ribs threatening to capsize on his _aching_ lungs, and,

“ _Geralt,”_ Jaskier pleads, _right_ against his lips, and his _voice_ – Geralt’s _never_ heard it like this before, like it’s being _wrung_ out of him, and Geralt’s stomach flips over in something close to panic as he tips back, as he cups Jaskier’s jaw and thumbs over his cheek, hips stuttering, a bit,

But the Siren gasps softly against his palm, nuzzles into his touch instead of recoiling from it as his heels dig, needy and commanding, into Geralt’s ass even as he _falters,_

As he says, hesitantly,

“ _Jaskier,”_

But,

 _“Don’t stop_ , please, darling, _please_ –“

And Jaskier clutches at Geralt’s arm and crests his hips, pants like a damn _dog_ against his calloused palm, and his hair’s damp with sweat, sticks to his brow, his temples, and he’s _clinging_ to Geralt like he’s terrified he might _vanish_ if he doesn’t hold on _tight_ enough,

And,

“Look at me,” and the words come out a little _harsher_ than Geralt means them to sound in the grips of his budding concern, but Jaskier still _obeys_ , turns those blue eyes towards him without hesitation, and Geralt thumbs over his bitten bottom lip as he fucks shallowly into the Siren,

As Jaskier’s body _undulates_ underneath him, a sinuous, subtle wave of muscle, _and he_ \- he _moans_ against the pad of Geralt’s thumb and then his _tongue_ flicks out to lave over it, and,

It’s _never_ been like this,

And Jaskier’s blue eyes are _lidded_ , heavy,

_Hazy,_

But he looks at Geralt with a new, strange kind of _clarity_ as he licks at the pad of the Witcher’s thumb,

As he clutches at Geralt’s arm like it’s the _only_ thing keeping him anchored _right_ where he _should be_ , right between Jaskier’s thighs,

And something hot and _possessive,_

Protective and _consuming,_

 _Claiming_ and biting,

Unfurls deep in Geralt’s gut,

As Jaskier _holds his gaze,_

As Jaskier nips, slow and soft, down the heel of Geralt’s palm,

As he _whines,_ low and pitchy, against Geralt’s fingertips,

And,

Needy, _commanding_ heels dig into Geralt’s ass until he’s moving again, until he’s fucking into Jaskier _proper,_ and the rugged, broken sob of sheer _relief_ Jaskier lets out when Geralt finally, _finally_ wraps a hand around his cock is something he’ll remember for the rest of his _stupidly long life,_

A life he’s determined to make _last,_ so long as he gets to _keep_ dragging sounds like that from the sea-born miracle beneath him, _and,_

It barely takes three swift pumps of his fist before Jaskier cums with a harsh, _biting_ keen, back arching with the sheer _force_ of it, brow knitted up tight, _and Geralt_ – Geralt thinks he’s about to sprout _fangs_ when the scent of the Siren _slams_ into him with all the force of a damn _hurricane,_

And there’s _no sight like it,_

No sight like Jaskier’s lithe body glimmering with his own fucking spunk,

And there’s _no fucking scent_ like his,

No fucking _taste,_

No fucking words to use to explain _any_ of it,

And Geralt lets out a moan that threatens to _unmake_ him as he nuzzles against Jaskier’s cum-streaked chest,

As he laves his Siren-starved tongue through the mess Jaskier's made of himself, _and then,_

And then _Geralt’s_ the one panting like a _goddamn animal_ as he comes apart, as he buries himself deep in the _tight_ clutch of Jaskier’s body, the body that’s going _limp_ beneath him, soft and _malleable_ , absolutely _fucked-out,_

But it’s –

It’s _more_ than that,

Because Jaskier is _quiet,_ as Geralt tries to catch his breath, face pressed to Jaskier's damp throat,

And no clever fingers card through his hair,

No deep laughs roll down Geralt’s spine,

And Geralt’s seen Jaskier _well-fucked_ before, of course he has,

(Plenty of times,

 _Dozens_ ,)

But he’s never been _quiet_ like this,

And Geralt’s gripped by some kind of _fear_ again as he rises onto his palms to get a good look at the Siren - but as he does, Jaskier makes a soft little sound, the sort of sound that reminds Geralt of a _plea_ , and all he can do is hush the Siren gently as he runs a hand over his brow to brush his damp hair back,

“Jaskier?”

But Jaskier ignores him in favor of rolling towards his arm, trailing after it as Geralt strokes over his brow like it’s the true north of his compass rose, and Geralt _watches_ , torn between _impossible_ adoration and burning _concern,_ as Jaskier tucks his face against the sensitive underside of Geralt’s forearm,

And,

Now,

_See,_

Geralt’s been alive for quite some time now,

And he’s not the _quickest,_

Or the cleverest,

But as Jaskier hides his face against his forearm,

Something _clicks_ into place,

And it’s –

It’s _overwhelming,_

The sheer amount of raw _emotion_ that swells up in Geralt’s throat,

And he thinks – thinks his too-slow heart has stopped _beating_ , for a moment,

As he cards careful fingers through Jaskier’s hair,

As he slides down to nose over the Siren’s ear, up along his temple,

As he burrs, “ _shh,_ sweet thing, right here,” and,

Jaskier keeps whining low and deep in his chest until Geralt’s gathering him up in his arms, until Geralt’s nuzzling against the side of his face, until Geralt’s settling back between his thighs, the weight of his body blanketing the Siren, caging him _in,_ pinning him _down,_

And it’s not until the bulk of Geralt is settled back over him that Jaskier goes quiet again, and _this_ – this has never _happened_ before, _but,_

Jaskier radiates a new kind of _need,_

One that Geralt can _taste_ when he kisses the Siren, kisses him as soft and soothing as he knows how,

One he can _smell_ as Jaskier’s body cools, as he starts to _shiver,_ a little, beneath Geralt,

And Geralt noses through Jaskier’s hair as he starts to shift them, hushing the crooning notes that echo through the Siren as he carefully pulls out of his weary body; Geralt moves to settle back against the headboard with Jaskier pillowed against his chest, one of his _ridiculously_ soft blankets all wrapped around his shoulders,

And Geralt nuzzles at his crown, slides a thumb over one cheek,

Cages Jaskier in with his thighs,

Wraps iron-strong arms around him,

Murmurs, “I’ve got you, little lark,” and,

Adoration and concern nip at one another inside the chasm of Geralt’s chest as he strokes a knuckle up and down Jaskier’s spine, as he burrs low in response to each soft sound the Siren lets out, as he kisses down the bridge of Jaskier’s nose,

As he reminds Jaskier he’s _here_ , that he’s staying _right here,_

And it’s never happened before, this sort of thing,

And _this_ – this happened _entirely by accident,_

Which has him feeling a little _guilty,_

More than a little _protective_ ,

But it’s _not long_ , not long before Jaskier’s shifting in his arms, shifting like he's coming awake,

Not long before Jaskier’s kissing lazily up the scarred side of Geralt’s throat,

Not long before Jaskier’s arms are sliding, weary and slow, around Geralt’s shoulders,

And he’s warm and pleasantly _heavy,_ his Siren is, warm and heavy and _well-fucked_ , smelling of the both of them, of clean, _musky_ sweat and drying spunk, of the claim Geralt’s left between his thighs, and when Jaskier shifts, Geralt’s hit by all of it at once, and his nostrils flare as he slides a possessive hand up the curve of Jaskier’s spine,

As a growl rolls, _unbidden_ , through his chest,

And Jaskier _laughs_ , quiet and hoarse,

Nips at Geralt’s jaw,

As he moves over Geralt’s lowering thighs and resettles in the Witcher’s lap, and Geralt snakes an arm around Jaskier’s slender waist as the Siren kisses up along his cheek, tries to cross his lips to get to the other, but Geralt catches him fast with a hand hand at his nape, greedily swallows down the soft sigh Jaskier lets out when their tongues slide together, slick and _wanting,_

“ _There_ you are,” Geralt burrs as those sky-blue eyes, focused and clever and _so_ bright, flicker up to meet his own; “are you alright, sweet thing?”

“That’s _certainly_ one word for it,” Jaskier huffs, white teeth flashing in a grin, “ _alright_. Incredibly _well-fucked_. Absolutely floating. _Love-drunk,_ even.”

Which has Geralt’s stomach doing something _strange,_

Has his too-slow heart _tripping over itself,_

And he thumbs over Jaskier’s lips,

And the Siren licks at it, clever eyes glittering as his brow quirks,

“Don’t deserve you,” Geralt murmurs, completely absorbed in the way Jaskier’s pink tongue curls up against the side of his thumb,

And then the Siren’s catching Geralt’s wrist,

And his bitten lips melt against Geralt’s own,

And Geralt drags the blanket away as Jaskier grinds, slow and _demanding,_ against the Witcher’s stomach,

And,

“But _here you are_ ,” Jaskier murmurs, rolling his hips as Geralt reaches blindly for the bottle of lube, “loving me _anyway_ ,”

“For as long as you’ll have me, little lark,”

“Then that’ll be _forever,_ Witcher,” and,

“ _Get on with it,”_

And Geralt growls through a smile he can’t bite back, catches Jaskier’s laugh between his teeth as he rolls the Siren back to the sheets,

And he supposes he’ll have to make this life _last_ , then,

If it’s to be _forever,_


End file.
